Espinoza's poems, Contemporary American Hunger, Learning Economics at Gemco, and Las Cucarachas are not only political statements, they are poignant and powerful commentary on how Americans view poverty.
I selected these three poems because reading them one after the other I saw the poet highlighting one side of poverty and in many ways saying that poverty is a matter of perspective. Since poverty is often considered a direct result of the politics of economy, I found it fitting to combine my discussion of these poems for this week.
One of the questions from this week's group was: How does the theme of politics influence your reading of these poems? For me, I kept thinking about how the definition of poverty seemed different when I was growing up. I mean we were probably poor by the politician'ss and statistician's definitions, but I didn't know it until I was an adult.
I think Espinoza does a great job of demonstrating this reality in the poem Contemporary American Hunger.
Satisfied, we ventured through a rainbow
Of tubes and balls with the other kids,
Their stomachs full of Big Macs or Happy Meals.
But we were happy too--better than staying
At home on a Saturday
Eating potato tacos after our yard chores.
and in Learning Economics at Gemco
I place the coins into his cupped hands
And he stacks two neat columns of cents
Next to his seat on the curb.
He nods his chin, half-solemnly.
...I ask Mom why?--
We only tried to help.
These poems, told from the perspective of a child living with poor parents, make it a point to state the complex using simple language. Giving us setting and circumstance helps to establish a tone that is non-accusatory, but in many ways speaks volumes.
In Las Cucarachas, Espinoza starts by establishing who (the roaches) and where (everywhere in your house), thus showing a universal picture of the place where roaches reside. He speaks of the roaches as beings graced and favored by God.
offering thanks
and grace
to a god who favors
them with the lost
harvest of the earth.
but he never accuses anyone for the roaches and never states directly that they are a result of poverty, it just seems understood. It could be that I'm detecting politics as humor or irony in the three poems.
Like the ironic moment in stanza 5 of Learning Economics at Gemco:
The cop says bums make thirty bucks a week
Begging for change
And are not so unhappy
When arrested
Since they get food, shelter,
And a hot shower for a least a week.
or the humorous moment in lines 9 - 11 of Las Cucarachas:
They munch on dry corn
flakes you thought
were raisin bran.
Espinoza is the one writer this week that really caught my eye because of his use of irony and humor in his writing. I found that I was able to connect to it in many ways. He provides lots of access points into his work because he does not point the finger at anyone, he simply uses poetry to point at what's always been there.
peacelovelight
Kiala
Showing posts with label Politics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Politics. Show all posts
Sunday, November 8, 2009
On poetryfoundation.org, I found a ‘micro essay’ by Linh Dinh on teaching poetry, in which he states, “Poetry should astound and frighten.” http://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2009/01/what-i-usually-say-to-my-students/
I was drawn to and puzzled by his pieces, so I wanted to learn more about where he was coming from. Dinh immigrated to the U.S. from Vietnam in 1975 (as an 11 or 12-year-old), so it is presumable that the imagery in his poems, “The Fox Hole” and “The Most Beautiful Word” was informed by the child’s experience of direct war. Read without context, it would not be clear whether these episodes were from that war or another—they are not accompanied by the usual dogma of Vietnam War literature. And so they escape categorization. Each is a fresh, brutal, grizzly—and at once oddly comic, romantic—depiction human-imposed suffering, fear, and death. These poems startle their way into our systems, jolt and fragment our awareness.
“The Fox Hole” reads like a short story. The first sentence, “‘Oh great,’ she yells, ‘a fox hole!’” reads as light-hearted and jovial, as though an adventure is about to begun. Upon second and third readings, it is unclear what the woman’s emotions are behind this line—it could be frustration, relief. But Dinh immediately begins by turning us on our heads: the foxhole is a referential for a wartime setting, but the tone and punctuation of the statement doesn’t necessarily suggest the fear or anxiety that one associates with that setting. The proceeding images transform the foxhole into a grave, a living tomb: “throwing a clump of dirt on her head…bunched up like a mummy…almost completely buried.” The references to her beauty and her youth contrast the grave imagery: “flush of youth…pretty woman.”
One could almost read over the line, “There’s dirt in her nose, in her eyes, in her mouth,” because it blends right into the center of the paragraph-block. But I found this image, on second reading, to be the most horrifying. Imagining the sensation of having hard, gritty dirt in those orifices is unbearable—and the woman’s position suddenly jerks from living being (whom we were cheering on for successfully hiding and outwitting the soldiers) to cadaver. The dirt piles, she cannot get it out of her body, the feet are padding it down over her: she is being buried alive. The reference to a soldier being able to walk right over her also brings to mind the desecration of actual graves, and how colonization and war often disregards past graves. Here Dinh is flipping it around again—established graves are not just disturbed, but living graves are created and ignored.
Finally, the poem comes to a climactic end, when the woman questions what she has sat upon. We move from root (natural, benign), to hand (disturbing, but still safe) to hand grenade (death stamp). This last line demonstrates the same emotional progression as the rest of the poem: first relief, the growing horror, then devastation. In the last line and the last words it is confirmed that we are not on an adventure, that our heroine is not safe, that there is not safety in a war field.
In “The Most Beautiful Word,” the speaker is more defined than in “The Fox Hole”—which draws in the questions of complicity, and physical and emotional distance. We begin with a dreamy statement about language, specifically the English language. So our speaker knows English—did s/he know it then, at the time, or is s/he only using it now in reflection? (Clearly the poem is written in English but, in context, we can assume it is placed in Vietnam.) The next few images of the injured man conjure food and feasting: “steaming…harvest…” But the speaker’s tone remains casual, detached: “I myself was bleeding.” His injury’s are certainly not as extreme as the other man’s, but is he in a state of shock? The speaker has retreated from the present moment to an intellectual, ethereal meditation on language. He replaces the word “yaw” (movement from side to side), still in the context of injury/war/death, lyrical, playful words: “danced, tumbled.”
And suddenly we are in a scene between two would-be lovers—it is now “my man” who is lying, face-down, and the speaker is an “impatient lover”—still casual, distant. The dominoes of his bones or teeth “Clack! Clack!” and we are delivered from kitchen to bedroom to rec room. His blood is a “pink spray,” a “rainbow”, and the veins in his jaw are “blue threads to the soul”—all words that incite comfort, beauty. Is this to preserve the preciousness, the dignity of human life, or is this over-the-top language the mimics the ways in which we (English-speakers, Americans) are consistently protected from the gruesomeness of war? Several words also demonstrate medical knowledge: “C-spine” (cervical spine, or vertebrae just below the skull), “mandible” (lower jaw), “extracted.” So we wonder who the speaker is, a medic? Was he a doctor or will he be one? Or are these words all participants in active war learn because they are so consistently exposed to the body in a brutal way?
The word play this prose poem demonstrates the disjuncture between what death/war actually look like and what we are told. It also displays the human mind’s capacity for escapism in processing the horrifying—what cannot be processed. There are images from daily life/households, the spin off on sounds of words, and the movement into medical terms—all distracts from the suffering body blatantly displayed before us.
So how is this political? In every way that it’s not political: Dinh avoids a polemic with playful language, misleading storytelling, mixed metaphors, and ambivalent narration. He disarms us, but when we blink, look again, we realize he’s drug us into hell and left us there, marooned.
I was drawn to and puzzled by his pieces, so I wanted to learn more about where he was coming from. Dinh immigrated to the U.S. from Vietnam in 1975 (as an 11 or 12-year-old), so it is presumable that the imagery in his poems, “The Fox Hole” and “The Most Beautiful Word” was informed by the child’s experience of direct war. Read without context, it would not be clear whether these episodes were from that war or another—they are not accompanied by the usual dogma of Vietnam War literature. And so they escape categorization. Each is a fresh, brutal, grizzly—and at once oddly comic, romantic—depiction human-imposed suffering, fear, and death. These poems startle their way into our systems, jolt and fragment our awareness.
“The Fox Hole” reads like a short story. The first sentence, “‘Oh great,’ she yells, ‘a fox hole!’” reads as light-hearted and jovial, as though an adventure is about to begun. Upon second and third readings, it is unclear what the woman’s emotions are behind this line—it could be frustration, relief. But Dinh immediately begins by turning us on our heads: the foxhole is a referential for a wartime setting, but the tone and punctuation of the statement doesn’t necessarily suggest the fear or anxiety that one associates with that setting. The proceeding images transform the foxhole into a grave, a living tomb: “throwing a clump of dirt on her head…bunched up like a mummy…almost completely buried.” The references to her beauty and her youth contrast the grave imagery: “flush of youth…pretty woman.”
One could almost read over the line, “There’s dirt in her nose, in her eyes, in her mouth,” because it blends right into the center of the paragraph-block. But I found this image, on second reading, to be the most horrifying. Imagining the sensation of having hard, gritty dirt in those orifices is unbearable—and the woman’s position suddenly jerks from living being (whom we were cheering on for successfully hiding and outwitting the soldiers) to cadaver. The dirt piles, she cannot get it out of her body, the feet are padding it down over her: she is being buried alive. The reference to a soldier being able to walk right over her also brings to mind the desecration of actual graves, and how colonization and war often disregards past graves. Here Dinh is flipping it around again—established graves are not just disturbed, but living graves are created and ignored.
Finally, the poem comes to a climactic end, when the woman questions what she has sat upon. We move from root (natural, benign), to hand (disturbing, but still safe) to hand grenade (death stamp). This last line demonstrates the same emotional progression as the rest of the poem: first relief, the growing horror, then devastation. In the last line and the last words it is confirmed that we are not on an adventure, that our heroine is not safe, that there is not safety in a war field.
In “The Most Beautiful Word,” the speaker is more defined than in “The Fox Hole”—which draws in the questions of complicity, and physical and emotional distance. We begin with a dreamy statement about language, specifically the English language. So our speaker knows English—did s/he know it then, at the time, or is s/he only using it now in reflection? (Clearly the poem is written in English but, in context, we can assume it is placed in Vietnam.) The next few images of the injured man conjure food and feasting: “steaming…harvest…” But the speaker’s tone remains casual, detached: “I myself was bleeding.” His injury’s are certainly not as extreme as the other man’s, but is he in a state of shock? The speaker has retreated from the present moment to an intellectual, ethereal meditation on language. He replaces the word “yaw” (movement from side to side), still in the context of injury/war/death, lyrical, playful words: “danced, tumbled.”
And suddenly we are in a scene between two would-be lovers—it is now “my man” who is lying, face-down, and the speaker is an “impatient lover”—still casual, distant. The dominoes of his bones or teeth “Clack! Clack!” and we are delivered from kitchen to bedroom to rec room. His blood is a “pink spray,” a “rainbow”, and the veins in his jaw are “blue threads to the soul”—all words that incite comfort, beauty. Is this to preserve the preciousness, the dignity of human life, or is this over-the-top language the mimics the ways in which we (English-speakers, Americans) are consistently protected from the gruesomeness of war? Several words also demonstrate medical knowledge: “C-spine” (cervical spine, or vertebrae just below the skull), “mandible” (lower jaw), “extracted.” So we wonder who the speaker is, a medic? Was he a doctor or will he be one? Or are these words all participants in active war learn because they are so consistently exposed to the body in a brutal way?
The word play this prose poem demonstrates the disjuncture between what death/war actually look like and what we are told. It also displays the human mind’s capacity for escapism in processing the horrifying—what cannot be processed. There are images from daily life/households, the spin off on sounds of words, and the movement into medical terms—all distracts from the suffering body blatantly displayed before us.
So how is this political? In every way that it’s not political: Dinh avoids a polemic with playful language, misleading storytelling, mixed metaphors, and ambivalent narration. He disarms us, but when we blink, look again, we realize he’s drug us into hell and left us there, marooned.
Mong-Lan does personal as political like whoa
Whoa! Mong-Lan! Whoa! Personal as political! Whoa!
I’m blown out by this poet, by her insane diction and impeccable timing on and across the page. I looked her up right away to see what new book she has out & found that she hasn’t published since 2008 because she’s been busy with Fulbright scholarships in Vietnam and silly things like that. Psh, get back to work!
On her website, Mong-Lan is quoted as saying “Behind the image, the imagination.” I think this is a really acute & open-faced summary of the ways in which her poems are stacked thick with layers and tightly wound. I’m looking specifically at “Field” on page 102 of AAP. The poem itself doesn’t physically take up very much room, a half page at best. But the psychic space the poem inhabits unfolds indefinitely off the page and into my lap, my bed, the floor. I read her poetry and I think YES. THIS is what good poetry is supposed to be capable of doing.
“Crows land like horses’ neighs” and I’m on the floor. What just happened? She blew in and touched down like some tornado off the radar. The juxtapositioning of this first gusty line and the quiet flatness of the title allows this to happen, allows us to be surprised and engaged and yet not at all misled. This is where the layering begins, where we find the imagination behind the images. “Crows land like horses’ neighs / rush of rocks,” and we can hear it before we see it. This poem is so tightly crafted!
The poem continues with a question that, without these particular line breaks, would otherwise slow the poem significantly. “how many buffaloes / does it take to plow a disaster?” she writes, sliding more layers on quickly. We are shown the buffaloes right after the aural rush of power in the first stanza, allowing us to hear the buffaloes here too, a herd of them. But then Mong-Lan enacts the plow and we are watching buffaloes tear up land into a disaster and watching buffaloes working fields for an unyielding crop, all at once. When she calls upon women in the last two lines of this stanza, we are allowed to recognize the possible gendering of the buffaloes in the previous lines.
The next stanza complicates nouns into verbs, layering imagination upon images that we think we understand. “shoots of incense / hotly in her hands” represent both shoots or stalks of incense and also the shooting pains of aging hands, ones that have cleaned up many messes. “she bows toward the tombstones / face of her son” and suddenly she is not only looking at the tombstone, but at it’s face and that it’s face is that of her son. Her hands hold the pain of grief and of many years where the “revolutions [are not] realize[d].”
The final full stanza leaves the poem ringing before the last couplet. The last line, “to dye what she’s earned” infuses the poem with the death & disaster that’s obviously prevalent in this life, on this field, but takes it a step further to layer her own age and inevitable death as well. Mong-Lan shows us that there is no reason for the speaker to dye the grey hair she has earned in her lifetime, but the poet also deposits another coating by implying “to die for what she’s earned.”
The whole poem sits on that last line. On her back. The field, the animals, the disaster, the death, the hesitations, the refusals, the weather, the age. Everything sits on her back.
Mong-Lan brings the political into the personal in ways that invite the reader to investigate both more fully. I’m really excited to see how the groups elaborate on the personal as political, especially in terms of poetry’s responsibility to both.
I’m blown out by this poet, by her insane diction and impeccable timing on and across the page. I looked her up right away to see what new book she has out & found that she hasn’t published since 2008 because she’s been busy with Fulbright scholarships in Vietnam and silly things like that. Psh, get back to work!
On her website, Mong-Lan is quoted as saying “Behind the image, the imagination.” I think this is a really acute & open-faced summary of the ways in which her poems are stacked thick with layers and tightly wound. I’m looking specifically at “Field” on page 102 of AAP. The poem itself doesn’t physically take up very much room, a half page at best. But the psychic space the poem inhabits unfolds indefinitely off the page and into my lap, my bed, the floor. I read her poetry and I think YES. THIS is what good poetry is supposed to be capable of doing.
“Crows land like horses’ neighs” and I’m on the floor. What just happened? She blew in and touched down like some tornado off the radar. The juxtapositioning of this first gusty line and the quiet flatness of the title allows this to happen, allows us to be surprised and engaged and yet not at all misled. This is where the layering begins, where we find the imagination behind the images. “Crows land like horses’ neighs / rush of rocks,” and we can hear it before we see it. This poem is so tightly crafted!
The poem continues with a question that, without these particular line breaks, would otherwise slow the poem significantly. “how many buffaloes / does it take to plow a disaster?” she writes, sliding more layers on quickly. We are shown the buffaloes right after the aural rush of power in the first stanza, allowing us to hear the buffaloes here too, a herd of them. But then Mong-Lan enacts the plow and we are watching buffaloes tear up land into a disaster and watching buffaloes working fields for an unyielding crop, all at once. When she calls upon women in the last two lines of this stanza, we are allowed to recognize the possible gendering of the buffaloes in the previous lines.
The next stanza complicates nouns into verbs, layering imagination upon images that we think we understand. “shoots of incense / hotly in her hands” represent both shoots or stalks of incense and also the shooting pains of aging hands, ones that have cleaned up many messes. “she bows toward the tombstones / face of her son” and suddenly she is not only looking at the tombstone, but at it’s face and that it’s face is that of her son. Her hands hold the pain of grief and of many years where the “revolutions [are not] realize[d].”
The final full stanza leaves the poem ringing before the last couplet. The last line, “to dye what she’s earned” infuses the poem with the death & disaster that’s obviously prevalent in this life, on this field, but takes it a step further to layer her own age and inevitable death as well. Mong-Lan shows us that there is no reason for the speaker to dye the grey hair she has earned in her lifetime, but the poet also deposits another coating by implying “to die for what she’s earned.”
The whole poem sits on that last line. On her back. The field, the animals, the disaster, the death, the hesitations, the refusals, the weather, the age. Everything sits on her back.
Mong-Lan brings the political into the personal in ways that invite the reader to investigate both more fully. I’m really excited to see how the groups elaborate on the personal as political, especially in terms of poetry’s responsibility to both.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Cecil Brown, June Jordan, Richard Wright
The poem that grabbed hold of me tightest was, aptly placed, the first entry in the Politics section, “Integrating the Strawberry Swimming Pool in 1998.” Reed initiates us into this section with Cecil Brown’s Blues-inspired piece, one whose disquieting and sorrowful refrain belies title year of 1998. The lilt of the slow, swaying opening lines dances me into the section, while at once making the clear, grizzly statement that the reality of these poets will be lain before us, stark and honest—nothing hidden, nothing cushioned. Then, the questions swell in my head: Could it be that a segregated pool still exists in Berkeley at the turn of the 21st Century? Are we, as readers, shocked? If so, who is shocked? And, as such, whom is Brown aiming to shock?
The story unravels in a tight, punched dialogue, as the set of the springtime swimming pool flows in around the cast: the poet and the twos sets of Gestapo boots. Brown thinks, “Isn’t it strange…how they now have cops everywhere/.” In 2009, when I drive home on Sacramento late I am slow and steady alongside cruising black-and-whites, my hands tight on the wheel. Isn’t it strange, I think, how there are cops everywhere. Hard to know if they circle in pairs waiting to protect ya or waiting to catchya.
But this poem isn’t about the police so much, with their twisted gestures, demands, icy voices and glares. Maybe they plucked him, profiled him (this most decorated academic swimming in his own backyard campus pool) or maybe they followed the lead of the lifeguard who profiled, rang the town bell, swung the rope; followed the lead of the white ladies in bikinis who swept eyes to their sides and whispered into receivers; followed the lead of professors and deans who parsed their departmental budgets and cast a proprietary watch over these facilities. The final stanzas crescendo into an indictment of the academy itself.
At the top of page 197, Brown tells us “Not more than a few hours/ I asked the Department of _______ / to teach a course in James Baldwin.” But he doesn’t tell us whether this was a few hours before or after the Strawberry Canyon Swimming Pool incident. When his course was declined did he take it just as the perennial struggle of any academic for recognition and funding? Then, after being attacked a few hours later did he allow the connection to snap together that this purportedly liberal university has biased, canon-entrenched, racist policies? Or did he ask for the course afterward, to vindicate himself, to create a platform in this mecca of learning where he could declare: “James Baldwin was carried off to a Paris jail under the accusation of pilfering bed sheets and I too, here too, have known this injustice!” We don’t know which department he asked or when he asked it. —Why this choice?— But the importance of the timeline, the details, evaporates, and the verse pounds to the thundering crux: “We pay taxes, they get the classes. / We have the melanin in our skins, but they get to lie in the sun in/ The Strawberry swimming pool.”
Brown holds the blues beat throughout; he writes in speech-slang and employs double negatives in his refrain—a guideline June Jordan and her students once outlined for the formal use of Black English (“Nobody Mean More to Me Than You and the Future Life of Willie Jordan”). He uses these linguistic tropes ironically in the face of abject racial profiling, but also because the the emotional impact of lines like “They don’t want no blacks up there / Ain’t goin’ there no mo’/” runs directly into the soul in a way a formally rhetorical condemnation never could.
Somehow I have left little room for the other poems I loved. June Jordan’s poem dedicated to Dr. Elizabeth Ann Karlin: “I think / I have decided / I wish it to be understood.” I don’t know this language but it sounds like the way the Pope might address us—how one’s whims or wishes can so easily turn into a decree. I love that she turns this language right back around, claiming the power for women over their own bodies and elucidating the pope’s harbored sexuality/privacy. The short lines emphasize the point so brilliantly—crisp and tumbling after one another like the words on a scroll.
Also Richard Wright’s well-placed closing poem chilled me. I read it backwards and forwards, over and over. The scene of the lynching was pieced together, re-invented, torn apart, embodied. It comes upon us, “the thing” like a sinister breeze—at once a memory and a premonition. The imagery of white bones in a cushion of ashes clashes against images of black blood, charred stump, traces of tar. We know what’s been here even before the details arrive; the sky and the trees have borne witness. Wright stumbles upon the scene that wrenches a chasm between the world and himself. Perhaps he begins outside, part of the world, far from this treachery; and he ends, having traced through the “sooty details” only to find himself within the scene, but a skull, far divided from the world he once inhabited.
-Jessica
The story unravels in a tight, punched dialogue, as the set of the springtime swimming pool flows in around the cast: the poet and the twos sets of Gestapo boots. Brown thinks, “Isn’t it strange…how they now have cops everywhere/.” In 2009, when I drive home on Sacramento late I am slow and steady alongside cruising black-and-whites, my hands tight on the wheel. Isn’t it strange, I think, how there are cops everywhere. Hard to know if they circle in pairs waiting to protect ya or waiting to catchya.
But this poem isn’t about the police so much, with their twisted gestures, demands, icy voices and glares. Maybe they plucked him, profiled him (this most decorated academic swimming in his own backyard campus pool) or maybe they followed the lead of the lifeguard who profiled, rang the town bell, swung the rope; followed the lead of the white ladies in bikinis who swept eyes to their sides and whispered into receivers; followed the lead of professors and deans who parsed their departmental budgets and cast a proprietary watch over these facilities. The final stanzas crescendo into an indictment of the academy itself.
At the top of page 197, Brown tells us “Not more than a few hours/ I asked the Department of _______ / to teach a course in James Baldwin.” But he doesn’t tell us whether this was a few hours before or after the Strawberry Canyon Swimming Pool incident. When his course was declined did he take it just as the perennial struggle of any academic for recognition and funding? Then, after being attacked a few hours later did he allow the connection to snap together that this purportedly liberal university has biased, canon-entrenched, racist policies? Or did he ask for the course afterward, to vindicate himself, to create a platform in this mecca of learning where he could declare: “James Baldwin was carried off to a Paris jail under the accusation of pilfering bed sheets and I too, here too, have known this injustice!” We don’t know which department he asked or when he asked it. —Why this choice?— But the importance of the timeline, the details, evaporates, and the verse pounds to the thundering crux: “We pay taxes, they get the classes. / We have the melanin in our skins, but they get to lie in the sun in/ The Strawberry swimming pool.”
Brown holds the blues beat throughout; he writes in speech-slang and employs double negatives in his refrain—a guideline June Jordan and her students once outlined for the formal use of Black English (“Nobody Mean More to Me Than You and the Future Life of Willie Jordan”). He uses these linguistic tropes ironically in the face of abject racial profiling, but also because the the emotional impact of lines like “They don’t want no blacks up there / Ain’t goin’ there no mo’/” runs directly into the soul in a way a formally rhetorical condemnation never could.
Somehow I have left little room for the other poems I loved. June Jordan’s poem dedicated to Dr. Elizabeth Ann Karlin: “I think / I have decided / I wish it to be understood.” I don’t know this language but it sounds like the way the Pope might address us—how one’s whims or wishes can so easily turn into a decree. I love that she turns this language right back around, claiming the power for women over their own bodies and elucidating the pope’s harbored sexuality/privacy. The short lines emphasize the point so brilliantly—crisp and tumbling after one another like the words on a scroll.
Also Richard Wright’s well-placed closing poem chilled me. I read it backwards and forwards, over and over. The scene of the lynching was pieced together, re-invented, torn apart, embodied. It comes upon us, “the thing” like a sinister breeze—at once a memory and a premonition. The imagery of white bones in a cushion of ashes clashes against images of black blood, charred stump, traces of tar. We know what’s been here even before the details arrive; the sky and the trees have borne witness. Wright stumbles upon the scene that wrenches a chasm between the world and himself. Perhaps he begins outside, part of the world, far from this treachery; and he ends, having traced through the “sooty details” only to find himself within the scene, but a skull, far divided from the world he once inhabited.
-Jessica
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